


Pitch Imperfect

by toomuchplor



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-21
Updated: 2009-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 04:18:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wee sweet McSmooch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitch Imperfect

John plays the guitar badly, left hand hesitating over and over as he changes chords, accidentally strumming strings that don't fit the harmony, losing his rhythm easily and sometimes forgetting the difference between simple and compound meter. Either no one's ever shown him how to tune the guitar or he has a tin ear, because the low E is too low, the high E too high, and every string between is just enough off A440 equal temperament to turn even properly fingered chords into mildly sour dissonances.

John's voice is worse. The way he's curled awkwardly around the guitar precludes the possibility of decent breath support, his country aspirations make every vowel a little nasalized, and he chews the consonants at the end of half his words. His intonation drifts north and south of the melody and once he changes key for three measures without seeming to notice. He forgets the lyrics for the bridge, pauses, bites his lower lip, and sort of "doo doo doo hm hm hm"s his way through it before launching into a final rendition of the chorus. He tries for the higher octave at the end of the song, and misses by about a quarter tone.

John lowers the guitar, lets his hands drop from the neck and body, straightens his torso, and looks over at Rodney through his lashes. "I guess I need to practice some more," he says.

Rodney reaches over, cups his hand around the back of John's neck, tugs him in close enough that Rodney can drop a fond kiss to his temple. "Are you kidding me? That was -- you're a natural," he says. "Play me another one."

John shoots him a calculating stare to see if Rodney's bullshitting him, but there's a weird pleased flush rising in his cheeks even as he openly doubts Rodney's words. "Okay," he agrees, curving his fingers over the frets again. "Uh. This one is newer. It's not as good."

Rodney leans back on his hands, tilts his head, and listens intently to every hesitant, out-of-tune note.


End file.
